After The End
by Sincostax
Summary: A diary style fanfiction. What is left of the world, when the switch is left ON? Rated as T for freedom of writing, however, is unlikely to rise to this rating. Helpful criticism would be appreciated, as well as reviews (:
1. Chapter 1

Day 1

I think I can hear him.

But then again, I'm not so sure.

My dearest friends are gone, you see.  
Compadrés, amigos. Friends.  
All gone.  
I sit on the edge of the end of the lands bleached white by their christening – _baptism _of purification. The Purified Zones. They've got a nice ring to them, don't you know? Can't you hear the ringing, the chiming of that name – _purified. Pure. _Simple._ Pur-i-fi-ca-tion._  
He used to say those words. _Pure, purified, purification_. Sometimes he might use it as a compliment–  
"You are pure" I hear him tell me, looking me up and down before I tell him what I have to offer.  
But then it sent him mad – insane, you might say – "impure" this and "impure" that.  
"You must be purified."  
It wasn't the sugar that got him – he had no sweet tooth to speak of – it wasn't the corruption that sent him into a spiral.  
No, no – it was the purity of this world. The lack thereof.  
It drove him mad to know that this world could never be pure – it began with the removal of the damned souls, the _spectres, _and then grew to become mass genocide, homocide.  
Butchery, murder, slaughter, carnage, killing – all with the common finalé of death.  
It wasn't purity he wanted in the end, oh no, it was simple decimation – removal of any and all life he could find.  
My dearest friend. My love. _Mon batteur.  
_Was this ever really what you wanted? A boring, empty world?  
I think I can hear him mumble under his breath, his voice carried on the wind.  
But then again, I'm not so sure.


	2. Chapter 2

Day 2

Mon ami.

Mon frere.  
Le juge.  
_Pablo_.  
My only remaining confidant. Mon batteur made sure of that.  
Just a traditional items merchant, necessary in every video game.  
Not one of those protagonists you need to listen to for hours, but...

Still here after the game ends. When the puppeteer leaves the theatre.

And then Pablo, the 'saviour' of this world. The righteous rectifier of all this purified corruption.  
Or perhaps he is its condemnation.  
My hand moves naturally over the scruff of his neck now, the only thing I've done for hours – days, even.  
Well, what feels like days. He took that with him too, when he took my friends. _Time_.

Now it's all that's left, to stroke a sleeping, otherworldly, cat.  
All that's left, but to lose the only thing that's left of me.  
My mind. My sanity. Myself.  
The last living representation of all that ever was and never will be again.

The smiling cat and the merchant.

How quaint. 


	3. Chapter 3

Day 3

There are no customers.  
Without customers, there are no credits.  
Without credits, there is no stock.  
Without stock there is no trade.

Without trade there are no customers.  
But that's a lie. It's all a lie.  
The credits, the stock, the trade, the customers – it's all a lie.  
The credits can be found in bleached white houses with no lodgers to speak of.  
The stock can be found in the usual places it's hidden, but with no customers there is no need for replenishing the stock. I suppose it remains that the customers are the truth.  
And with no customers, there can be no trade.  
Round and round these words go. Statement, justification, reasoning, lie.  
Statement, justification, reasoning, lie.  
Statement, justification, reasoning, lie.  
Statement, justification, reason–  
_Chep, chep, chep_.  
Batteur?  
_Chep, chep, chep._

_Chep, chep, chep, pad, pad, pad.  
_Pablo.  
Just Pablo, and my mind playing tricks.  
Without the trade there is no customer – without the customer, there can be no trade.  
Without the trade, there is no merchant.  
Without the merchant... What am I?


	4. Chapter 4

Day 4

It's quiet. Deafeningly quiet.

I can hear my body work, whirring round and round.

Today I chose the library for my perch, but Pablo did not join me.

On slower days, I might have asked him why. This was not a slow day.  
My legs are hanging over the side of the building, my backpack behind me – propping me up.  
A stability, support.

I lean forwards a little, trying to look over the edge. All I see is white.

A breeze blows into my ears, the silence is broken. Then, from not too far, I hear the plastic pushing up against the metal ground. It's soothing. It calms my ticking mind – in the silence, simply ticking.

Ticking, ticking... Like a bomb. Like a clock. Made pointless by the loss of time.

Why would I need a clock when all has stopped? Why would I need a bomb where there is no reason? Even death is pointless now – an escape from monotony into more monotony.

I close my eyes, the lack of sight making it easier to imagine. All I hear is the wind blowing softly, the plastic ocean breaking upon the hard surface of the metal.

It almost feels like the time before the aftermath. The time when there was a Queen and her son and all of their pawns. A vengeful Batter, with a sacred mission. Before the vengeful batter took action.

Before the lands of metal and plastic went to ruin.

I lean back, the wind dying down. The sound of the plastic sea still churning around me.

What was it like when I had no time? When all I did was work and follow the Batter.

I followed him like a child, clinging to the one thing that might lead him home.

The one constant familiarity.

I followed him to his grave, with nothing more in my mind that the credits he might spend.

"What might it be this time, mi amigo?" I might ask, my language changing every now and again just to keep him interested. To keep him coming back, for more.

More of my stock, or perhaps, more of... me...?

I lean back against my backpack now, one knee raised and brought close to my body.  
I take off my mask and let the returning gentle breeze flow over my face, the first time in years.

Decades, even. I, myself, am not aware of how long it has been, exactly.

Something tells me that it's been longer than that.

I raise my hand to my face, my fingers trailing over each lump and scar. I've forgotten what I look like – beyond the mask. Beyond the merchant – beyond the miaou-ing guide.

I rest my head against the back pack, now.

I try to sleep away these gnawing thoughts.


End file.
